She wanted to scream and weep and kill, but she couldn’t. Everyone would see. Everyone would know.
“Tom Morgan isn’t your father,” Foster said. “We think he may be your kidnapper. And most likely your mother’s killer.” Foster gave it a moment. “You see it, don’t you?”
Amelia did. She saw it clearly.
“We’re done,” Bishop said, pulling Amelia gently up by the arm. “We’re not saying another word. Come at us again, and you’d better have something better than this little slideshow.”
Amelia smiled. It was meant to show that they hadn’t wrecked her, though they had. Following Bishop out, she was leaving behind the person she’d been. She thought about the beautiful woman with the blue eyes who once had babies she loved. She’d gone shopping a long time ago and never came home. And a dead man had Amelia’s eyes. Dr. Mariana Silva was no longer important to her. Only one thing was.
CHAPTER 72
Foster hovered over the phone on speaker as Bigelow reported back every few minutes with updated details on Davies’s movements. He and Lonergan were tailing Amelia at a normal pace in an unmarked car and were now headed north on Lake Shore Drive. Everyone hoped she was on her way to confront Tom Morgan. They didn’t have enough to arrest her. Silva’s ID wouldn’t have been enough to build a case on or sway the state’s attorney. They needed more.
“Well, she’s not making a run for it, that’s for sure,” Li said. “She would have to go a lot faster than that. We stunned her, though. I almost felt sorry for her. Finding out your whole life’s a lie?” Li looked up from her computer, where she’d been digging into the Morgans’ time in Naperville. “I know we’re hoping she’s running to Daddy, but what if she never wants to see him again and she’s running to tell Bodie the news?”
Foster looked over. “I don’t think she’s thinking about her brother right now.”
Li smacked her monitor. “Squeaky clean in Naperville. Paid his bills. No complaints on record for his business. Coached Little League and everything. I ran a name check for the community paper and found a photo of him with the team.” She slid the photo over to Foster. “Same guy as in the ad. Same guy Lenk ID’d as Davies’s creepy whistling uncle.” She leaned back. “So he’s at least a dirty babynapper who passed the kids off as his own, but I think we’re both thinking he killed Priscilla Jensen first. And if he killed her and he’s here now, I think he might have had something to do with Birch and the others. And if Silva’s right and Davies tried killing her, he’s got help. Which means . . .”
“We’ve got a family of killers,” Foster said, completing Li’s sentence. “All for one, one for all.”
They sat patiently waiting for Bigelow to report in again through the open line.
“Damn it,” he said. “Hold on.” They heard a car horn blare and could hear the engine rev. “We lost her on Sheridan, right after the turn off the Drive. Don’t see her anywhere. That’s that.”
Foster ended the call and sat for a time thinking. Li swiveled back to her computer. “Lonergan’s driving.”
Foster pulled out her desk drawer, searching for a pen that worked, but found a thumbtack lying amid the detritus and slipped it into her pocket. “Yes.”
There was a moment’s silence. “Could happen to anyone,” Li said. “Happened to me once. Not a suspected homicidal maniac, though.”
“I don’t have anything against Lonergan,” Foster said, hoping to cut off the discussion.
“Yeah, you do.”
Foster shot up from her chair. “I don’t.” She stormed off toward the restroom.
Li called after her. “Yeah, you do.”
When Lonergan and Bigelow made it back, they eased into the office quietly. The activity in the room didn’t stop, and no one made a big production out of the tail that had gone wrong, but everybody knew about it, knew how important finding Tom Morgan was. Foster could feel Lonergan watching her from the other side of the room, but she avoided eye contact. Did he expect her to rub his nose in it? Gloat? Did he really think she was that petty?
After more than an hour, Foster sat back in her chair, running her hands over her face, tired, hungry. They’d all been sleeping too little, eating too sporadically, afraid to relax for fear of another body dump. And Foster couldn’t forget the added worry, for herself, for Li. One of the Morgans, or maybe all of them, knew where they lived. They’d been to their homes, stood in their yards. In Li’s case, they had gotten dangerously close to her family. Foster was tired of not knowing.
“We’ve been tracking similar homicides,” Foster said. Li looked a question. “Bodies dumped. Young women of a type. Priscilla Jensen’s officially missing. Her body hasn’t been found. So . . .”
Li perked up. “We stop looking for bodies and look at missing person cases instead, especially those around Naperville and the University of Michigan campus.” She was already tapping. Foster scooted closer to her computer and did the same. They needed a lucky break, or else no break at all would be of any use. It took hours before they figured out the pattern, and then they called the team together.
Foster tacked the photos on the board. “Six women missing from the time the Morgans moved into their house in Naperville till the time Tom sold it and the kids went off to college. Notice anything?” She turned back to the team, at the cops seated or leaning on desks, weary eyes on the crowded board.
“Just the obvious,” Lonergan said. “They all look kinda like Birch.”
“Uh-oh.” It was Kelley right before he reached for a bottle of antacids on his desk. “I’m not going to like this.”
Foster pointed to the last photo up. “The last one we could find was fourteen years ago. Susan Rafferty. Twenty-two. Went missing from the Sloppy Cup Café in Naperville on a Sunday afternoon.”
“And you can connect Tom Morgan to her?” Symansky asked.
“Not yet,” Li said.
Bigelow raised his hand. “If it’s Tom, what’s he been doing since he ran out of Naperville?”
“Better question is, Where’s he been doing it?” Foster said. “We’ve got pings out all over the surrounding states. Killers don’t stop killing. We know that, so chances are good we’re going to come up with more photos to put on that board.”
“But now he’s back here. Why?” Lonergan took off his blazer and rolled his sleeves up.
“I think he came back for Amelia,” Foster said. Her statement quieted the room. “I think Tom Morgan’s a killer and he raised her to be one too. Look at her painting, her attack on Silva. Nobody in the press knew about those lipstick rings. I didn’t see any of them report on a pink backpack. I think Tom killed Wicks for the reason we thought. She took a photo of something she wasn’t supposed to. Him. I believe that’s true because I don’t see any cameras painted up there, and Amelia didn’t paint Wicks’s face.”
“A family of killers,” Symansky groaned. “Damn it all to hell and back.”